


Everybody Ought to Treat a Stranger Right

by psychomachia



Category: Original Work
Genre: Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Drugged victim, Group Fucktoy, Hunted with Rape as Penalty for Being Caught, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Object Insertion, Oviposition, Pegging, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 16:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19404280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/pseuds/psychomachia
Summary: The detective knocks at the door. They gladly welcome him in.





	Everybody Ought to Treat a Stranger Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/gifts).



_The country house is remote, a sprawling thing set far away from the town. No one knows if it's deserted or not , for no one has ever left it. There are lights seen in the distance, but they cause the mind to shy away, to forget it about it as soon as it is seen. It's a blind spot in the vision, and there's a very good reason for it._

_No one comes there, not willingly._

_Except for the detective._

_He comes with his suspicious eyes and his gun at his side and his questions about the gruesome murder._

_He knocks at the door. They gladly welcome him in._

There's seven of them and he's still dizzy from whatever they gave him. One minute he was standing in the library, saying, "Now you know why I gathered you all here." 

The next minute...

Sophia holds the knife. Her sister, next to her, smiles at him and kisses him lightly on the forehead. “At least you're prettier than the last one.”

He wants to scream at Charlotte but all he can manage is a low moan. His arms are spread to each side of the desk, the wood smooth beneath him.

“Really, Detective,” Dr. Mackenzie says. “How stupid are you?”

He can't talk. The blade is cool against his skin. His dignity is ripped away, one piece at a time.

“I'd say he's very stupid, Peter,” Professor Litvina says. Her glasses are low. “Pity.”

“Now, now, Helena,” Andrew holds up his hands. “We agreed we'd start out nice.”

“We were nice,” Daniel says. “He got the drink after all.”

“And after all the nasty things he said about us,” Sophia says, as the knife slices through the last of his clothing, leaving him exposed for all to see. “Saying we made fatal mistakes, calling us amateurs.”

His skin prickles. “No,” he manages to say. “No.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Charlotte coos. “You don't get to say no.” She's holding a candlestick in her left hand, and she brings the candle over to his bare back, letting a few drops of the wax spatter against his back. It burns.

Daniel's undoing his belt, letting his cock spring free from his pants. Andrew's doing the same.

This can't be happening--

This can't be--

The doctor puts a finger against his neck and he jolts at the chill of the touch. “Should be manageable for a few hours,” he says.

“Long enough,” Andrew says, and smiles. “Now open wide.” He grips the detective's jaw in his hands and pries the mouth open.

It's easier than it should be.

“You should be thanking us,” Daniel says, sliding his cock into the detective's mouth. It fills it completely. He's choking, the length blocking out the air, his nose clogged, but he all he can do is hold it there, let his saliva drip from the corners of his mouth. “We could have just killed you.”

“I mean, who gathers a bunch of people you suspect to be vicious murderers together and then says, oh, I know who the killer is?” Helena snorts. “Did you expect us to go quietly?”

Charlotte blows out the candle, then holds the silver candlestick in her left hand. “He probably did. Pretty, but not bright.” She walks up to him, the silk of her dress a barely audible murmur.

The metal is still warm from the candle, as are her fingers gently rubbing something oily and thick inside him. He manages to moan again.

“You'll thank me,” she whispers. “I told you we were nice.”

The first inch isn't the worst. It's everything after it.

It twists inside him, spreading him open. He's certain he's bleeding, and he's crying, but it doesn't matter. The cock in his mouth gets larger, harder.

“So close,” Helena says. “Maybe next time you'll get it right. Her fingers slip to his cock, caressing it with sharpened nails. For every stroke, a sharp pinch.

It's overwhelming. The push and pull of the rod ripping him apart, as Charlotte manipulates it, making him take it deeper. Choking as Daniel pulls his head closer in, pushing up to his groin, the cock going further down his throat. Helena fisting his cock, grasping it so he can't come.

Andrew bends down next to him, whispers something to Daniel, who smiles, and moves aside. Impossibly, he's taking his own cock in hand, forcing it in beside the one already there.

It's too much—he can't breathe--

Sophia's joined her sister and starts running the knife down his back. Where it goes, a sharp pain follows, and he can feel the trickle of blood running down it.

Dr. Mackenzie wraps his cold fingers around the detective's neck, squeezing it and the other men chuckle.

The detective turns his pleading eyes to the last person, the one who's been silent through it all.

The man in the gray coat smiles at him.

“Oh, I'm not going to save you yet,” he says. “It wouldn't be fair.”

When the men come in his throat and the candlestick fully rams in, the detective passes out. For good, he hopes.

* * *

The air in the greenhouse is cold, the breeze coming through in a broken window. .

He's awake this time, but it's a nightmare because hasn't this happened before?

Hasn't it?

“Shh,” Sophia says. “Don't cry.” She licks the tear at the corner of his eye. “You knew you'd lose, right?”

His head is throbbing, and his left wrist is broken. The shovel lies on the ground, spattered with blood.

“I think roses.” Charlotte's taking some flowers out of a vase. She lets it drop the ground, the pottery smashing beneath her feet.

“So trite,” the doctor says. “Are you sure you wouldn't prefer _atropa belladonna_? Or maybe some _actaea pachypoda_?”

“Not all of us need symbolism, Peter,” Helena says, her tone bored. “Sometimes a flower is just a flower.”

“And sometimes, it's a little fun to have something extra,” he counters. “Please?”

“You really are too gentle with him,” Andrew scoffs. “I thought we agreed we wouldn't let him escape this time.”

Charlotte sticks the first stem into the detective. The thorn pierces against the skin, and he bites his lip to keep from screaming. It wouldn't do any good.

“It's not an escape so much as an enhancement.” He's already preparing the drug. “Just a way to set the mood.”

Another rose goes in. The detective has a horrible suspicion it won't stop until it reaches at least a dozen. If he's lucky.

“Drink up,” the doctor says, and he should refuse to open his mouth, but if he does, one of them is just going to force it open.

It's inevitable.

The liquid is sweet, syrupy, on his tongue and as it hits his system, he can feel the warmth spreading throughout him.

The world also changes.

Things waver in front of him.

He starts to laugh.

“See,” the doctor says. “Won't this make it more interesting?”

“If you say so,” Andrew's form wavers in front of him, blinking in and out. “At least it means we can up the ante a little.”

His ass feels impossibly full, everywhere inside pricked, but it doesn't hurt.

“Lovely,” Helena says, “but you missed a spot.”

“How silly!” Charlotte laughs. “You're absolutely right.” She takes a thirteenth rose, one that to his fevered eyes, seems to glow incandescent before him, and inserts it down his cock. Thorns and all.

The pain should be mind-numbing. It's not.

Neither does he feel the roses plucked from his ass, tossed to the floor, replaced by Andrew's cock sliding in.

Daniel joins him, of course, a few minutes later, and once again, he's sure he'll break apart from the fullness of it.

Sophia's sitting on top of him, guiding his cock into her pussy. “It was really a blessing that we killed the old man,” she says. “Just think. If he hadn't died, you never would have met us.”

“Not true,” Helena says. “It could have been someone else. He still would have found his way here.”

“That's not the point. The point is that we did him a favor.” She's clutching him tightly, and he's engulfed in heat. His head rocks back and Peter kisses him deeply, his tongue slipping into his mouth, sealing it shut.

“Fine.” Helena's letting her fingers trail down to the detective's nipples, pinching them and making him jump a little. The people around him don't seem to mind. “But one of these days, we do it my way.”

He'd like to unpack that further, investigate just what that means, but he's trying to come, the rose blocking it, and he's whining in frustration. Andrew and Daniel are thrusting inside him, and Sophia's digging her nails into his back.

Peter's already making notes inside a notebook.

Charlotte plucks the last rose from inside his cock. “I suppose you deserve this,” she says. “For being such a good boy.”

The man in the gray coat, idly tracing his hand along the vines on the wall, walks over and bends down. He kisses the detective lightly on the lips.

“Keep it up,” he says. “You've still got a long way to go.”

* * *

The green felt beneath him is scratchy against his chest. His nipples chafe against it, but it's hardly the worst pain.

That would probably be the smooth wooden rod in him, penetrating impossibly deep. It's been in there for a while, but really, time's not something he thinks about any more.

“I'm going to go with five,” Charlotte says. “I don't think he's ready enough for more.”

“Really?” Helena tsks. “I think you underestimate him. Nine.”

Andrew's mouth is occupied by Daniel's cock going deep into his throat, but he holds up four fingers.

Peter jots it down in his notebook. “Daniel?”

“Seven. It's a good number.”

The notebook closes with a flourish. “Well, I'm saying fifteen.” Peter smiles. “His body can definitely take it.”

“You are a doctor,” Helena says. “I suppose if anyone would know the limitations of a human, it would be you.”

He can hear the clack of objects banging into each other. The detective may be half out of his mind at this point, but he knows what that means.

It's not like the room didn't give it away.

“Please,” he says, his voice rasping and low. “I can't--”

Sophia kisses him on the forehead. “Oh, I'm sure you can,” she says. “We've been preparing you for a while.”

The needle goes into his arm. The rod is removed and tossed aside.

And the first ball slides into his ass, cool and smooth, to be followed by another in short succession.

“One, two, buckle my shoe,” Charlotte lightly sings. “Perhaps you shouldn't have knocked at the door, though.”

Each ball clicks against the next one, sending sparks of pain through him. He shouldn't be able to take them and yet he finds he can, his body opening up to them, letting them fill him entirely.

“You're doing so well,” Andrew says suddenly, right next to him. A little bit of come drips from his chin into the detective's ear. “Already six and you're not even screaming.”

Six? Seven? He can't keep track of them. They could fill him until his skin bursts open and all he can do is focus on the warmth down there, the objects growing hotter the longer they stay in him.

“Peter?”

There's a hand at his neck again, pressing briefly, before moving down to his nipples. It rubs them rhythmically, a circle that dips to his heart then back up again. “No indications of distress,” he says. “Apart from the normal.”

“You know, we really should have played snooker,” Daniel says. “I'd love to have seen him to take it all.”

“That's your problem,” Helena says. “No sense of proportion. It's not fun if he doesn't last until the end.”

“Spoilsport.”

He's so full now, everything in him stretching him until he's sure he can't take another one. And yet he keeps taking them, gaping wider and wider.

“Last one, darling,” Sophia says, and holds up something white and round. “I know we said fifteen, but I'm sure you can find room for one more.”

His bleary eyes focus on it, then blink.

“What?”

It's not a ball.

It's an egg.

“Silly!” Charlotte giggles. “Did you really think we were putting those in you? What's the point of that?”

There's a final push in his ass, as the last one is inserted, then a gentle pat to his cheeks.

“You really have to be more observant, Detective,” Helena says. “We'd really like you to win after all.”

The balls—eggs—inside him are hot now, burning through him. He tries to throw his head back to scream, but the rope tying it down prevents him.

His cries are muffled by the felt instead.

A cool hand runs soothingly down his back, slim fingers gently tracing along his spine. “It's all right,” Andrew whispers, “Just take a deep breath and give in.”

The detective chokes back a sob.

He takes a deep breath.

And he feels something inside him shake and crack.

There's a rush of pleasure, intense and overwhelming, and his whole body jerks.

“Only fifteen more to go,” Peter says.

Gray Coat's picked up the rod from the floor, idly twisting it in his hands. The detective knows better than to ask him for help, so he just glares at him, his body shaking as each egg releases... something into him that makes him spasm until he thinks he's going to fly apart from just the sensation.

“I'll make sure you don't pass out,” the man says.

* * *

He can't see, but he's still running.

“You've got five minutes,” Charlotte chirped, as she finished tying his hands behind his back. His legs were roped at the knees already. “Find a good hiding space.”

He keeps tripping over things, bits of furniture he's sure, and he's heard at least one crash that signified something fragile and expensive breaking as he knocked it to the ground.

The blindfold came next, firmly strapped around his eyes. “We're not going to gag you,” Andrew said. “I mean, you can call for help, but that just means we'll find you quicker. So I wouldn't.”

He could try to hide. Just slink into a darkened corner, catch his breath, try to get the rope off so he could have a fighting chance. Take out--

The metal balls went smoothly inside him, fingers pushing them all the way in. Helena smiled at him, let her hand slip under the collar they fixed around his throat. She pulled him closer to say, “Don't worry. They're not going to hatch or anything.”

Each step he takes as he tries to pick up his pace almost has him double over. He should be used to this, to having shit shoved up his ass, but each vibration thrums through him, causes sharp gasps that he tries to stifle.

The air is stuffy around him, so it's a sudden shock when he breathes in something fresh, cold, like a sharp slap to his face. His naked body is unprepared and he shivers, the chill still welcome to his heated skin.

Is he near the greenhouse? He takes a cautious step forward, letting his shoulders brush against the wall. He slides along, letting it bump against a lamp? a clock? until there's a sudden gap and a wall of cold and--

An open door to the outside.

It can't be, but maybe..

It's almost certainly a trap and yet, he has to try.

He steps out, his bare feet on rocks that poke at his feet. Each step he takes gingerly, not wanting to fall until he hits something soft that tickles beneath him. Grass.

He should scream for help, call out, but there's no point. Even if there's someone out there, not connected to any of this, he'll just drag them into it.

“But that's why this is so much fun. It's not a good mystery if there's no one to solve it.”

He doesn't hear it with his ears, but with his entire being, ringing throughout his head. It's a thought that didn't come from him, but it feels natural, as if it was the right conclusion to a puzzle he's been working on for years.

“You set it all up,” the detective whispers, letting the words hang in the night air. “How are you still alive?.”

“Oh, that's not the right question at all. You're going to have to do much better than that.”

"You're assuming I want to know the answer." The yawning void inside his mind, the one that whispers terrible truths in the moments when he's left alone, it grows so much louder when this man appears. 

“Yes, you do,” the man chuckles. “That's why I picked you. Don't let me down.”

“Go to hell,” he thinks, and the voice laughs again, amused, before it disappears, leaving him in the darkness. 

He's shaking and it's not because of the surprisingly cool summer night. 

“Found you!”

The voice is equally unwelcome, and it's right behind him. He can't help himself from twitching.

It's Sophia. “Yes!” She sounds thrilled. “I knew you'd find your way out the door. Everyone said you were too stupid and I thought they might be right, but no, you're a clever boy.”

She pushes him, far more forceful than a girl her size should be and he goes to the ground, knees taking the initial impact. He manages to keep himself upright, his arms extended behind him.

“Yes,” she says. “Just like that.”

He can feel something hard probing at his ass. He laughs because of course, that's how this ends. That's how it always ends.

“You know, this really was quite expensive.” She thrusts herself into him, gripping his collar with her hand. He chokes a little, her grasp tightening the leather around his neck. “Real ivory imported from India. Cost me a pretty penny. But you deserve the best.”

His throat is closing up. He can't breathe, can't do anything but let her do what she wants, take it all the way to the hilt and let her fuck him. And she does, vigorously and happily.

“I don't think we'll ever get tired of you,” she says. “You're so lucky we love you.”

The leather's cutting into his neck even more. His head is pounding. She's screaming. He can't, but he still feels the pleasure builds. He doesn't need to touch his cock to know that he's coming, his cock spurting out onto the grass .

She releases his neck and he gulps in air. “So lucky,” she coos.

“There you are!” Andrew calls out. The detective hears footsteps coming up. More than one set.

Sophia takes off the blindfold and he blinks, the world around him coming into focus. It's a clear night. He's off to the side of the driveway.

Daniel is next to Andrew and he can see the other three in the distance. The man in gray is nowhere to be seen.

“Good hunt,” Daniel says. “Spoils go to the winner, I suppose.”

“Don't pout,” Sophia responds. “You know you'll get a turn too.”

“Naturally.” He's already palming his cock in his pants. “Keep him steady for me.”

The detective turns his head, lets himself ignore Daniel's pants dropping to the ground. Andrew spitting on his hands. Sophia casually unbuckling her... instrument and wiping it on his back.

He gazes at the driveway, at the road beyond. He can see the gates in front of him. They're wide open.

It's all so funny.

* * *

They're all dancing in the ballroom, waltzing to a tinny song played on some sort of phonograph. Lovely creatures, every last one of them, in tuxedos and charmeuse gowns, their faces painted and bodies perfumed.

Except for the detective. He wears nothing but his bruises, his bites, the marks they lay upon him to claim him.

He kneels in the corner, unable to rise. His ass is raw. They've already taken him multiple times tonight, Charlotte riding him while Daniel fucks her and Andrew fucks him. Peter's cock slipped smoothly down his throat. Sophia and Helena fucking each other with Sophia's favorite toy.

Then Charlotte fucks him with it as he mouths at Helena's pussy, licks her as she clutches at his hair, pulls it from his head. Sophia takes his cock into her mouth, sucks him until he comes, then pulls herself to her feet and kisses him, giving it all back to him.

Daniel and Peter line their cocks together and take him again, Andrew thrusting his cock so deep in the detective's mouth that his nose touches against his groin. They come together and afterwards, Helena smooths down his hair and tells him he's a good boy.

The music croons, “Hold me to your heart and never let me free,/Always be close to me,”

It doesn't mean anything to him.

“No use in being a wallflower,” Charlotte calls out and he's yanked to his feet, Peter's arm on one side while Helena supports the other. “Everyone wants to fill your dance card.”

He's staggering between them. He's empty of everything but what they want – to kiss and fuck and be filled and spill his seed. There's nothing they can do to him anymore. They've done it all.

They drop him in the middle of the room, circle around him until he's surrounded on all sides. Their smiles are sweet, lined in red and white.

He asks, “What now?” and waits.

Sophia looks at Daniel, who sighs. “I guess it's time,” he says, a little wistful. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a gleaming silver revolver.

He holds it in the light, lets it shine.

The detective only sits, waits for it all to end.

Sophia plucks it from Daniel's hand and kneels. She puts the gun in the detective's unresisting hand, wraps his hand around it until he's clasping it.

“There's six bullets,” she says. “One for each of us.”

He looks up at her, his eyes blank.

Her voice is encouraging. “Make sure you aim for the center,” she adds. “You can't waste one.”

The detective slowly gets to his feet, waiting for someone to stop him. They keep smiling at him.

He lets his hand grip the trigger, cocks the hammer back.

“You've been a wonderful guest,” Andrew says.

The detective fires and he falls.

“I only wish we had met sooner.”

Helena goes next.

“You really were my favorite.”

Charlotte stumbles backwards, her giggle cut short.

“You've held up so well.”

Peter falls on top of her, the blood staining his white shirt.

“It's been a lovely evening.”

Daniel goes down and there's only Sophia, who steps forward. She kisses him on the cheek, her red lips leaving a mark. “Thank you,” she says.

The final shot rings out.

The detective bows his head. Now that the game is over, there's one last card to reveal.

“Such a mess,” the man in gray says. He steps over the bodies, the blood pooling around him. None of it gets on him. “I wonder what you'll say when they come to investigate this.”

“Self-defense,” he mutters dully. “They were--." He stops, unable to finish.

“Monsters?” the man asks. “That's amusing. Do you really think anyone will believe you?”

“No,” he says. “Not anymore.” He sees his reflection in the polished floors and the person staring back is nothing but a ragged piece of meat, fit for nothing more than to be used and tossed aside like you would a table scrap.

The man waits.

"This was what you wanted all along, wasn't it?" The detective should be angrier, but he's just so tired. "For me to become a murderer. Just like everyone else."

"No," the man says gently. "Not like everyone else. I'm so very proud of you."

"So what, now that I've done what you wanted, you're going to save me now? What could I possibly offer you that you haven't already taken?" His voice cracks at the end. 

“I'm sure you'll think of something,” the man says. He opens his arms, invites him in, "Come now, it's time. " 

The detective takes the last few steps forward, rests his head on the man's shoulder. The man pets it soothingly, caresses his matted, dirty hair.

“Let me hear you whisper "I surrender!"/While I'm waltzing in a dream with you.”

The detective closes his eyes, lets his body collapse entirely against him. The man hums the last few bars.

The music dies.

And nothing remains.

* * *

The suite is the best on the train, of course, a gorgeous thing of crystal and gold, with velvet curtains and silk sheets. The porter has long since left them alone.

Their fellow guests believe them to be celebrities of some sort. Perhaps actors or socialites, maybe even royalty.

“I bet they're émigrés, forced to flee their country because of a coup,” Charles whispered to his wife, Andrea, who rolled her eyes. “I've been reading things, dear, about--”

“No one's interested in your politics, darling,” she said.

But they are interested in who this mysterious couple is, the ones bundled in furs who managed to make their way onto the carriage without anyone getting a good look.

“It's very strange,” Petra confided to her fellow traveler, a man with an extraordinary mustache, who only nodded. “Perhaps they're spies.”

They are not. Not exactly.

Anthony lies back on the bed, his clothing long since stripped away. He keeps his eyes fixed on Gray, who lets a tendril whip out from behind him, bring Anthony to him. Anthony does not resist.

He never resists.

It's the price he pays.

Gray lets more tendrils creep out, slender, strong ones that spread each limb apart, display him fully. Two more tendrils creep to his nipples, gently tease the jeweled rings there.

They wrap around his cock, hold it tight so he can't come until Gray says so. One tendril goes into the cock, teases it. Anthony's been able to hold thicker and thicker ones since Gray started.

But the thickest ones are saved for taking Anthony from behind, filling him one by one until he's plugged tightly. A huge tendril goes down his throat and Anthony opens his mouth even wider, letting his painted lips wrap around it.

Soon, they start thrusting, pulsating through him, all around him. There's never pain anymore, only pleasure. Gray has seen to that and in return, Anthony gave himself to him fully.

If he remembers a time before Gray, he does not dwell on it anymore. Such memories are useless. There is only now and the indistinct, unending amount of time that stretches out before him.

Gray comes inside him, filling him with warmth and a strange bitter ichor that he has grown used to, even craves now.

Anthony comes a few seconds later as Gray removes the tendrils, lets his body shake and spill its release out. Gray holds him tightly, lets the tendrils cocoon him and strokes him on the forehead.

There's a knock at the door.

Anthony looks at Gray, who sets him down carefully on the bed, retracts the tendrils back into himself. He reaches for the silk robes hanging on the bedpost, gives one to Anthony while belting the other one around himself.

The knock repeats.

Anthony, sore and full and no longer the man he used to be (if he is a man at all), walks to the door and opens it.

A man with a mustache stands in front of him. “I have some questions for you,” he says. “Regarding the recent murder.”

Anthony laughs.

And opens the door wide.

**Author's Note:**

> Why do so many love songs from the 1930s work well as horror movie themes?


End file.
